


Soot-stained Hands

by under_a_linden_tree



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Holding Hands, I'm soft and so is this, M/M, Prompt Fic, Scene: The Bus Ride (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: When Aziraphale takes Crowley's hand on the bus ride back to London, it comes as a surprise, but it's a welcome one.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 68
Collections: Verb Roulette





	Soot-stained Hands

It doesn’t come as a surprise that there are two free seats next to each other on the last bus to Oxford. Neither is it surprising that the driver announces London as the next stop, not even to the driver himself, who is firmly convinced that he’ll be paid extra for this shift.

What  _ does  _ come as a surprise, though, is the slightly calloused hand that suddenly brushes against Crowley’s, gently, carefully reaching out. There’s a slight nervous tremble to Aziraphale’s fingers and he takes a clearly audible shallow breath, but he reaches out nevertheless. Soft fingertips graze Crowley's own, running down until they meet the junction of his palm, almost hesitant.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asks, his voice unexpectedly even.

Crowley nods. It’s rather a lot, admittedly, this sudden touch, but at the same time, it feels so  _ right _ , like it’s the only thing that could conceivably happen after the events of the day. It seems that Aziraphale feels that way too, since he suddenly wraps his fingers around Crowley’s hand in a much stronger grip. Crowley waits with bated breath to see what happens next, but for a long time, there’s nothing to break the silence except the muted sound of a kid listening to music and the clinking of the wine bottle in Aziraphale’s other hand against the seat.

At some point, the tension in his shoulders becomes a little more bearable and he finds himself almost unafraid of doing something – well – _wrong_ in connection to the angel. The warmth of Aziraphale’s hand is still there, like a defiant constant against the currents of his own anxiety. Crowley’s attention begins to drift off, the strain of the day taking its toll.

Suddenly, though, Aziraphale clears his throat.

“You really meant it? The – the offer.”

Crowley looks up at him and the sincere worry etched between his brows feels like a stab to the back. He shouldn’t expect Aziraphale to trust him easily, not even where simple things are concerned, but damn it if it doesn’t hurt.

“‘Course I did. You can stay as long as you’d like to.”

That makes him smile a little, and Crowley can almost feel the warmth of it. There’s still an uneasy edge to Aziraphale, and that’s only too understandable, since there’s an unspoken end to that sentence:  _ If they let us _ . And of course they won’t, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it? Especially if Aziraphale smiles despite it all.

They’ll have to come up with a plan later, if they want to make it out alive, but for now Crowley is too exhausted to contemplate it. Soot is still sticking to every line of his face and he can feel every muscle and bone in this corporation of his, the way his ruined clothes cling to it. He feels gross and worn out and he very much wants a shower. It’s a small wonder Aziraphale is still holding his stained hand.

Crowley looks out the window. He bites his lip while he thinks about reaching over and taking the bottle from Aziraphale’s hand, trying to hold back the other thoughts storming through his head. For once, he wants to live in the moment, but his own apprehensions won’t let him.

And then, none of it matters anymore, because Aziraphale is carefully resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder, fluffy hair just barely touching the seams of his jacket. The hesitation is almost palpable, but it doesn’t lessen the gesture. It’s the very trust Crowley thought wouldn’t be possible, trust that the affection so gingerly given will be accepted, that he won’t be pushed away. If his grip around Aziraphale’s hand tightens momentarily, then it’s due to surprise, not discomfort.

Aziraphale passes him the bottle without having to be asked, and he takes a swig. The gentle weight against his shoulder is like an anchor, pulling him down into a muddy ground that will never let him go again. He isn’t sure if he’d want it to, anyway.

It’s strange, how good a cheap wine can taste after the end of the world.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale suddenly begins. “Do you think – ” He interrupts himself, lifting his head from Crowley’s shoulder. “No, forget about it.”

Crowley considers this for a moment. Normally, he would let it slide, but there’s something in the angel’s worry-drawn brows that tells him he shouldn’t. Aziraphale truly wants to say whatever it is, even if he cannot bring himself to do so. He puts the bottle down and turns in his seat to face Aziraphale.

“What is it, angel?” he asks, trying very hard to make his voice sound soft, not wanting him to draw back.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath and looks down at the ring on his hand, an almost wistful expression on his face. Crowley knows that he would twist the ring now, if it didn’t mean that he would have to drop Crowley’s hand to do so.

“I’m sorry,” he begins. “I thought I should say it while I can. There -- there are so many things I should say but  – ”

“It’s fine, angel.”

And it is. If everything works out fine, they’ll have enough time to talk about things that matter in the big picture and things that matter only in their small bubble of existence, a space that has existed far longer than they’d admit to.

The lines on Aziraphale’s forehead fade and his eyes become more gentle, letting the centuries-old weight in Crowley’s chest grow a little lighter.

“Really?” the angel asks, in that ever-surprised tone of his that calls for reassurance.

So for the first time ever, Crowley reaches out and touches Aziraphale’s face, feels that softly lined angelic skin beneath his hand. Aziraphale doesn’t shrink back. Instead he leans into the touch, as though it’s all he’s ever wanted.

He leaves a trace of soot behind where his fingers rest, smudged across Aziraphale’s face, dark against his blood-drained cheeks. It clings to him, taints the untouched holiness of his skin and turns it into something merely mortal, a human corporation with a treasured soul inside. It’s only too fitting, that Crowley’s touch should leave a visible, dirty mark behind. Strange, isn’t it, that neither of them seems to care.

So Crowley nods, even if he almost feels burned by the warmth of this touch.

Aziraphale sighs, obviously pleased by the non-verbal answer and settles against Crowley’s shoulder again, more comfortably this time. The soot firmly remains there, leftovers of burning streets and lost cars, of a desperation that matters more in the grand scheme of things than whatever will happen to them next.

“I’m very grateful, then.”

Aziraphale’s voice is barely above a whisper, but that’s alright; Crowley would have understood the gesture on its own. It speaks volumes, together with the angel’s palm pressed against his own.

When they arrive at Crowley’s flat half an hour later, the smudge is still there, drawn across Aziraphale’s cheek. They can both see it in the mirror next to the door when the angel stops to take off his shoes. He doesn’t wipe it away, as though it were the first visible marker to delineate their own side, something that doesn’t have to be scraped off or hidden away. It teases a bittersweet smile out of Crowley, kindling the hope that there will be many more of them, once they’ve escaped Heaven and Hell’s grasps alive. If they’re lucky, they just might make it out together.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by Euterpein and Thyra279.  
> My verb was "smudge".


End file.
